On Behalf Of The Witch
by Letter to Miss
Summary: "It is involuntary now-the twists and turns of the virus snatched her wails and ran with it like the endless casualties, draining her for the upcoming role, strengthening what it required for optimal performance." Perhaps a one shot.


Legs. A whole ocean of them, whooshing by like a fatal baby's breath, singing odes to the sweet songs of yesterday. Perhaps it hadn't been yesterday. Maybe a week. Two. Another waves crashes around her. Each man, each woman laments their personal sweet, sweet loss as they barrel past. Oh, the humanity. The scripted phrase crawls through The Witch's muddled mind; she begins to sob louder. Foot long claws-had they been fingers? Nails?-rake the ground as she rocks back and forth. The runners pay no attention to her.

There are times when she wishes that they would run and keep running until they're far away, out of these once sterile halls, away from the blood stained wards and pushed aside caution tape. On other, better days, she finds the hordes an odd comfort. Though hardly well, her mind still functions. A light flickers on. She chokes. Vision is flooded with a harsh, piercing red, the hue of her eyes, tortured, the shade of hands, stained. Pain keeps her rooted to the spot, rocking helplessly to the steadfast tune of her own mourning. Her awareness is her downfall, and so she sobs for it. Her self pity makes her more human, the bogged down fibers of her brain reason. The tears she sheds will erase the revelation, creeping closer and closer until her whole being shakes with her efforts to _keep it out_.

A bloated, cariacture of a man waddles past, gurgling in a language unbeknowst to The Witch. For a moment, she wonders what would happen if she were to reach out with a claw, _one claw_, and poke the man's humongous stomach. Would he pop? A balloon on a sunny day.. She cannot remember where this memory is coming from. A pale girl in a yellow dress smiles at her brother as he whispers, "Listen close." He holds her birthday present, a balloon from her favorite grandpa, next to her ear. "And it'll..."

_Pop_.

The fat man's torso is lost in a spray of blood, showering the walls, splattering on the floor and The Witch's face. She blinks, her conscience fading for another shot. Only moments pass before it comes sprinting back to her, shoving aside instinct for her merciless sense of..The children, oh god, the children. Watched each one succumb hour in and hour out; some hadn't even lasted minutes. Little girls puked up blood on their fancy shoes and the little boys foamed at the mouth. Mom wouldn't stop crying, couldn't stop crying, not as her darlings fell to the ground in those final fleeting moments, not as their teeth sunk into her alabaster skin. Not even as her mind fell to pieces on the ground and her pounds fell with it as the tremors began.

It is involuntary now-the twists and turns of the virus snatched her wails and ran with it like the endless casualties, draining her for the upcoming role, strengthening what it required for optimal performance. She is now perfect, the system's ideal. Even her location is prime. She had fled to the hospital, her own transformation impending and her children under her arms. The elevator had been so close, perhaps it had been merciful when she fell to her knees. The light was so blinding, so...

"_I hear a witch_!"

"_Lights **off**."_

She can see them now, four frazzled humans, but she will not harm them, she is not a runner. She simply cries the hours away. There are no sunrises on a hospital floor. The girl approaches, shot gun poised, finger on the trigger. Both of her hands are shaking. The Witch feels herself tensing up, and she wishes she could remember language, words for this awful feeling that no, she cannot resist. A growl, low and feral, rips from her throat. With a blast there is a gaping hole in her back oh god it hurts it hurts so bad and The Witch shrieks screams cries as she whirls around flailing claws and the girl is down on the ground brown eyes growing glassy pink skin going red another shot or threeit hurts so bad she wishes she were dead the children dead this girl dead- "Zoey!" shouts the man in the vest, and The Witch looks down.

No! She turns on heel, only to find that there is no escape. The elevator doors are closed. The walls are closing in; she covers her face. Dead, dead, this is what happens when they're dead. The gunshots are more vicious, more vengeful, and she is weakening, slipping, sinking, falling to her knees. For the first time in weeks, she is unable to cry.

The oldest of the group slowly approaches her. Even as she dies, The Witch cannot stop trembling. He puts his boot against her back, a barrel against her head. Perhaps if she could speak, she would plead, or maybe she would thank him. He could care less.

_Bang._


End file.
